Resurrection Game
by StellarRequiem
Summary: Follow up to "Survivor's Tale": When the grid's struggling citizens reinstate the games during their effort to rebuild, Tron is driven to desperation. With Yori at his side, he at last reveals the impossible truth to the system he failed to save.
1. A Day in the Life

**Preface:**

This story is not only a prime example of my own self indulgence, but my gift for the many awesome readers who have given Survivor's Tale so much support. You guys are the best!

This story is also, effectively, a follow up (I hesitate to use the term "sequel,") to Survivor's Tale itself. I hope it will be readable to anyone, but by nature of what it is, readers who haven't read Survivor's Tale may be a bit confused, and just in case, here's what you should know:

The setting is post-Legacy, in a grid which is falling apart in some ways, and rebuilding itself in others. It is completely without a leader, and although Tron is alive, no one but Yori is aware of it. She is also one of only a select few who know about his double identity as Rinzler, and that he was not in fact killed a thousand cycles before during the coup. At this point in the story, his discs _have_ been restored to him, the results if which you will see. Oh, and he has been running around the grid, protecting it like he used to, but without revealing his identity for reasons you can probably imagine.

Anyway, I think that covers it, and I hope you all enjoy this!

End of Line.

* * *

Tron is already tearing away the short cloak with which he has been disguising himself as he enters the room. I can see in every line of his expression that he's getting sick of hiding, a realization which is unsurprising after the almost quarter-cycle which has passed, the entire duration of which he has spent executing his incognito acts of heroism, since we found each other again.

I wonder, however, what it is _exactly_ that's finally triggered him. Not that I'll have to wait long to find out. He's full to bursting, radiating anger, murder in his eyes.

In fact, this is probably the most enraged I've seen him since . . .

Since . . .

_Since Rinzler?_

I have to keep myself from wincing, reminding myself, _again_, that it can be nothing of the sort. Rinzler is gone_._ The tortured looks that pass over Tron's face sometimes, the shadows which flit past his eyes, the whisper of a snarl that likes to slip in under his warm voice when he's upset; these are just echoes . . . empty old nightmares that need to be ignored. Rinzler is dead.

Tron, on the other hand, is very much alive, and still beside himself with fury. I stand up from my crouch above my control panel in the corner to look at him, a frown crossing over my mouth.

He is standing in the center of the room; cloak a puddle on the floor in the corner, hands twisted into fists at his sides. His eyes; cold, hard, and dark with irritation, soften when they meet mine, although his nostrils are still flaring over whatever it is that's sparked him. He seems to be at a loss for words until I begin to move towards him, finally speaking as I draw up beside him. I rest my hand on his shoulder.

"The games are back," he says curtly, biting through his own words as he looks down at me.

"Oh dear. . ."Is what I'm thinking, but I speak calmly enough.

"Flynn's games, or Clu'?"

His mouth contorts into some hybrid of a pursed line and a grimace, his nose crinkling slightly.

"I don't know," he says, his tone lowered, the words grating themselves across it, "and I don't care."

I sigh to myself through my nose, and place my other hand against his torso. His arm snakes around my waist despite himself and his mood, and he glances at me before looking away towards some unremarkable point on the floor. After a moment of such staring, his features decompress into a more familiar look of vexation, one I am considerably less wary of. I offer him a slight smile as he turns to me again.

"Not now," I tell him before he can say another word. He simply stares back at me, expression flat. I press a fingertip against one of the tiny circles of light on his hip, ignoring him, and shake my head. He's glowing closer to gray than white, pushing himself as usual, chasing redemption at the cost of his own well being. How very, very Tron.

Without acknowledging his protests, I wrap my hands around his forearms, and steer him, however unwilling, towards the black square of bed at the center of the room, shoving him down into the cushions. He tries to get up again, but I stop him with a word.

"_Don't,_" I tell him, enjoying the way his ever-guarded features cannot entirely hide the fact that some piece of him actually wants very much to sit back, relax, and do exactly what I tell him, "even think about it."

He doesn't.

"_Yori,"_ he huffs instead, glaring up at me. Digging it way out from under the tiredness, frustration, and exasperation he is feeing otherwise, however, is a sharper, more tempting something. A little surge runs through my circuits even as I turn away, disappearing into the next room.

I return with two glasses of un-refined power, a drink that, though familiar to old timers like us, is potent enough to raise the dead. He begins to open his mouth.

"Not one word, Tron."

Standing over him and bending from the hip, I whisper the words in his ear as I hand him his glass. He is still sitting how I left him; essentially laying on his back, propped up in bed on is elbows. He takes the glass, and looks up at me for a moment before draining it. Smiling, I toss back my own, in turn taking the empty utensil from him to set it with mine on the floor. His circuits are already surging from the boost when I raise my eyes again.

A sort of rueful expression, neither a smile nor irritation, is on his face. His features are gentle, and he sits up to reach out to me. He takes my hands in his, pulling me towards him.

"The lady knows best," he sighs, grinning at me with one corner of his mouth, "I should just make that my mantra."

A laugh escapes me in response as I climb up onto the bed, settling myself in a straddle across his lap. He pulls my arms around his waist.

"I thought you already had one of those," I tease, planting a robust kiss on his familiar, welcome mouth. He returns it with unexpected hunger.

"One or two," he shrugs.

Laughing, teasing, and glaring at each other, we fall back into what is, among many other things, my favorite method of distracting Tron.


	2. Raining Man

I'm not sure at first what's woken me, and for that matter, I'm not sure I'm awake at all. I'm too lost in the dark comfort of cushions to open my eyes and find out.

A sound drifts through me, interrupting my reverie, in the form consistent, liquid pattering, and a sigh. It's the type of sigh that's more in the nose than the mouth, more a breath than a true sound.

. . . Tron's sigh.

I open my eyes.

I am curled on my side, facing the window. Outside of it, silver rain is pelting down upon the half-abandoned streets, dripping along the pain in long, sad, and haphazard vertical ribbons which blur the entire outside view together into a single, soft, darkening patch of gray. Tron is standing before it, staring into the downpour. He appears as a silhouette, the circle of white on his disc like a staring eye in the gloom.

I don't speak to him, because I can't think of anything to say. I can only imagine what he's seeing in the ever-changing patterns of rain on the window, on the empty roads outside. Our little corner of the system has yet to be either reclaimed or re-inhabited. None besides us and a few purposeless wanders seem to like the proximity of the arcade, quite possibly because most programs aren't certain a user can be trusted. Not anymore. Not after the propaganda Clu fed them.

Tron is never going to forgive himself for being a part of that regime. It doesn't matter if Rinzler was a completely different entity, a creature with no reservations and an utterly reversed sense of right and wrong. Tron will still blame himself . . . for living,

I squeeze my eyes shut again; chasing away the image of him standing in front of that window and thinking, I'm sure, about the coup and the moment in which Clu so nearly destroyed him.

_Tron . . ._

He's only ever told me one thing about that event, and it's not a comment I like to reflect on. Thinking about it makes me feel as if I'm being ripped open from the inside, like I've been kicked in the stomach.

_". . . I should've died when I had the chance."_

That's what he said to me. I shudder at the thought.

Opening my eyes again, I see that Tron is still looking out at the inclement weather. It's raining even harder now, energy pouring down from the sky as if our very system is trying to cleanse itself of everything we have put it through. The way Tron is watching it, I wonder if he isn't wishing something could do the same for him.

Suddenly, Tron doubles over, his fingers digging into the windowsill. His shoulders stiffening like those of a program who's been subjected to electric shock. It pains me to watch.

I want so badly to go to him, but something holds me back. This isn't a display anyone was meant to see. I'm forced to watch, and listen, in silence.

I can hear his breath hissing from between his teeth, and although he is facing away from me, I know that his expression has torn itself into a terrible grimace. He's so angry with so much right now, so tired of this way of half-living. No Users. No Flynn. No guidance. No purpose beyond a desperate fight for redemption, one he is certain he is beginning to lose. He can only do so much when he's hidden like a wraith in the shadows.

Of course, there aren't many other options. Everyone thinks he's dead. And then, even if they _were_ prepared for the fact that he isn't, precious few know about Rinzler . . . and when people do make that connection, well, it's never an easy process. I would know.

My thoughts are interrupted by a soft sound. A whisper is slipping out from Tron's lips, almost lost beneath the tut-tut patter of the rain and my own quiet cycling.

"All that is visible. . ."

It's the beginning of an old prayer, one I have not heard in far, far too long. I finish it for him, silently mouthing the words. The room is perfectly quiet.

Tron raises his head again, looking back out the window. He seems, somehow, as if he's making an agreement with the rain. I know that's a strange thought, but from behind, that really is how it seems.

He straightens himself then, and begins to turn around. My eyes snap shut. I'd rather he not know, at least just yet, that I saw.

In the dark, but still awake, I can interpret him crossing the room, the rustle of a cloak's fabric, and the clicking into place of two batons. He's going out.

_In this weather?_

I have to prevent my supposedly-in-standby lips from pressing themselves into a revealing frown. I don't like this. Not one bit.

The whisper of footsteps' approaching weight alerts me to him once again. I am still feigning sleep, so I cannot be entirely certain, but I think he's come over to the bed. I can feel him standing over me. His partial weight on the cushions, probably that of one supporting palm, confirms this a moment later.

The sleeve of his cloak brushes my cheek, and I can feel the freezing hot of his circuits near my skin as he tucks a strand of hair away behind my ear, and then the weight disappears. His footsteps retreat towards the doorway.

_Tron, wait._

The words are ready on my tongue when I am rebutted by the door hissing open. It shuts again before I can pretend to wake.

I sit up in a rush, but I am met only with the loneliness of an empty room, a dark sea of unforgiving rain pounding against my window. Tron has disappeared.


	3. Rinzler's Games

The rain is heavy and cold, pelting me with droplets large enough that they sting upon impact. A faint white glimmer in the distance, past the sheeting rain, is my only indication of where Tron is ahead of me.

I run after him, withdrawing my baton, falling liquid hurtling into my face.

_You are not leaving me behind again._

My cycle rezzes to life beneath me, a blur of neon blue in the haze of the rain. Driving more recklessly than someone who steers like me can really afford to, I chase after the fading white light of his disc, a blurred beacon beyond the downpour's screen.

At first, I can't make sense of where he's going. He weaves in and out of side streets, taking abandoned routes that don't seem to lead anywhere at all. It occurs to me that this is probably how he always travels. He can dress in whatever he likes, but he's still conspicuous. People _notice_ Tron. They can't help it.

Especially not with that helmet.

He let me upgrade it for him early on, personal downloads, particularly wearable downloads, being my specialty. It has the same circuitry patterns as always, and is angled the way Rinzler's was, although without the pointed shape. It fits more like a normal helmet around the chin, and is much, much lighter. It looks excellent on him.

However, I wish he would have let me make it some color besides _black. _Before, that wouldn't have been his first choice, and it unnerves me. Besides, I like to be able to see his face. When he comes in with the helmet, it almost seems like he doesn't have one.

_Like Rinzler._

Tron told me about him, just a little . . . that's all he can manage. There's something strange about the memories. While Tron can recall the files, I guess, they don't feel like they belong to him. He says it's like watching something on a view screen, not through your own eyes . . . like a recording. And he can never access the thoughts that went with the memories he sees. It's as if Rinzler, somehow, took them with him. They simply aren't there.

Actually, I rather suspect that Tron can't get _anything_ more of Rinzler in general than gut feelings and vague, chaotic echoes of what he must have felt . . . feeling being, however twisted, something I know from very, very personal experience that he did.

As I lose myself in my reflections, Tron races on ahead of me, a black mass of helmet and hood accented by the white, rain-blurred light of his disc, racing through the maze of the city till it feels like he's going nowhere at all.

And then, almost on cue, his ceaseless twists and turns begin to slow. Main thoroughfares begin to appear in the gaps between buildings to either side of us, and he accelerates as the roads grow more and more direct, each street racing towards the same central location.

Familiarity lights up my mind, schematics of the city with a blinking blue dot over my own location, our impossible route finally making sense. I know exactly where we're going.

_I should've known._

Sure enough, as we turn the final corner, there before us is the darkness of the open horizon, the blue-lit wings of the stadium flowing up from the ground before it, a smooth sided, gleaming disruption of the open landscape. There is no line outside of it, but even from here, I can hear the excited hum of the crowd within. The games are about to begin.

* * *

**Tron**

* * *

I'm sure that Yori, still careening after me, thinks that whatever mission I'm on is a dangerous one. I'm sure she's worried. She's good at that.

. . . Bless the Users, she _excels _at it.

Not that she doesn't do an impressive job of keeping it from me.

If I'd had anything to say for myself, I would've slowed up as soon as she appeared on the street behind me, would've let her coerce me back to the apartment . . . But that would've ruined my moment of determination. It's far too easy to get lost in her and not resurface, and I need to do this. As certain as I am that she thinks I'm on some warpath, and as right as she is, she's missing the essential piece.

The truth is that I'm terrified, and am **not** in the mood to discuss it.

Not with that stadium looming up where I have to see it.

The last time I stepped foot here, I was still someone else, a program I like to understand on a completely impersonal level . . . if at all. If there_ is_ some storage space in my systems still riddled with the private thoughts and sensations of Rinzler, I don't want to find it. I can infer enough from what I remember _doing_ to want _nothing_ of what I was thinking.

Of course, right about now, I'm having trouble avoiding it.

Facing the place which dredges up the horrors more effectively than any other in the system, I can suddenly sense the long forgotten surging in my circuits, the burning of anticipation which wets my mouth like the thought of a long drink, the roar of desire from every corner of my body to—

_. . . . . . . . . . _

- To _fight._

. . . I used to be so good.

And what's more, at least in lethal matches, Rinzler was even better. He not only won every match he ever played, but he did it with a flourish that transfixed his audiences. He was excellent.

Of course, having no qualms tends to do that to a conscript, as does a passion for killing.

The sight of the stadium reminds me of that passion. It's one he shared with the crowd.

I can remember the sound of their voices. I can still hear their feet crashing against the stands, "Rin-zler, Rin-zler, Rin-zler, DE-REZZ!" on their lips as their hands clapped out the beat of their chanting. I remember the way they shrieked, caught in the ecstasy of watching hopeless case after hopeless case go up against one or another of my weapons only to fall to the floor in a shower of warm, glowing, broken pieces . . .

I am here because I need to understand that perspective.

I need to know what makes them love watching what Rinzler, what I, so loved doing.

I am here because I have to face what I have helped to create, because I realize that it is very much my fault that violence has become such a powerful inclination of my people, regardless of who I was when I first modeled it for them. I know this. It is not what frightens me. Not at all.

What scares me is myself.

* * *

Author's note: This update took far, far too long, and I apologize. You can blame school, writer's block, "senioritis," a too-full mind, and Rinzler for it if you like.

Now, apology aside, I hope you all enjoyed my rendition of Tron. If so, let me know and I'll be sure to keep him in the mix.

Oh, and I would just like to say that I owe my metaphorical soul to both Jax Solo and Sharinganavenger. They have both been amazingly helpful (this chapter would NOT be here without their feedback,) and just generally awesome, and you should all go show em' some love and read their stuff immediately. XD

End of line.


	4. Plans

Tron

* * *

Yori follows me inside, but is gracious enough not to stand too close. She knows that I know she's here, but she can tell that I don't want to discuss it. I'm here to watch, and she lets me.

The first game, unsurprisingly, is disc wars.

They don't have the resources for the games that they used to, not without Clu's legions to gather up conscripts. As a result of this lack, they seem to have decided that this is the perfect fate _for _Clu's legions, irregardless of what their functions were. The first round involves only two competitors instead of the six or so they used to slaughter at once, and one of them is a sentry program I recognize. His name is Steem, and he used to work as a guard for Clu's headquarters… a job which mostly entailed standing around, looking intimidating, and being bored to standby. He's not harmless, but he's not an offensive fighter either. He's no danger to anyone here, certainly.

The other player is also one of Clu's, but I don't recognize his name. Rinzler didn't make interpersonal contact a priority, so it's not surprising. I used to know the name and face of every program in this system, but Clu repurposed and derezzed so many of them after shutting me down that I can't place them all anymore. The identity recognition data Flynn gave me is sorely outdated.

. . . I'm outdated.

The old me wouldn't have stood here and watched as two terrified programs hurtled discs at each other the way these two are. It's already clear what kind of games they're playing… and it's not the kind where both parties live. I should be doing something to stop them, but I can't. I'm riveted to the spot, surrounded by jeering programs. The pleasure that they take from this doesn't stem from joy, but from vengeance.

These programs are so angry.

They're angry at Clu, angry at Flynn, angry at me too, probably, if they haven't forgotten that I ever existed. They're angry at the ones who have tried to help them who failed and the users who never stepped in when Flynn fell through. They're _still _angry at the ISOs, who threw off the balance of their system so long ago, who have been dead for cycles because of Clu's genocidal campaigns. User, they're even mad about that, too. They're as dissatisfied with the solutions they've been given as they are with the problems that face them. They're furious, and they're taking it out on Steem and his opponent.

Up above me, the second orange-clad conscript (the display says his name is Tari,) is staying carefully out of reach of Steem's very strong melee capabilities in favor of hurtling his disc at him with little aim and a lot of power from a distance. Steem is avoiding the throws well enough, but his own technique is mediocre at best, and he misses with every one of his throws.

The crowd around me is shrieking for a hit. They want to see limbs breaking and people dying, want to see so many fractured pixels clattering across the floor…

_TRON._

I shake myself out of the reverie I hadn't realized I was falling into, my cycling accelerating. I don't like the sound of my own thoughts, or how graphically I can picture the violence I'm supposed to be against. I can only recall so much, but I know that this way of thinking reminds me of Rinzler. . . even without having access to the files where his thought processes were stored.

I'm hesitant to look up again, but the roaring of the crowd says that something is happening. I have to know what.

Steem has fallen to his knees above the crowd. His disc is on the floor at his side, and he is scrambling to retrieve it. Across the platform from him Tari is running as fast and as hard as his legs will carry him –a blur of orange and black- his disc raised over his head. There is a gap in the center of the platform, designed to keep all but the most agile conscripts away from a close contact fight in favor of more dramatic throws. Tari leaps as he reaches its edge, letting his disc fly as he goes.

I can see from here that he won't make it, and for a nano I surge forward, a hand raised by my baton and a grimace on my face, before I catch myself. I am still playing a game of deception. I can't afford to give myself away. I can't save him, anyway. Not from down here. The former guard (judging by his outfit,) falls just short of the other side of the platform, and plunges downward. He falls for a long time, a very long time, before he bursts and shatters against the arena floor in a spectacular display of light and color and broken pixels.

He screams the whole way down, and I can hear his body breaking from in the stands.

Up above, his disc carries on without him and, almost uncannily, finds its mark despite the demise of its owner. Steem is still sprawled on the floor, and the disc comes down against his lower back with enough force to stun him, and then break him. He derezzes quietly, with none of the fanfare of his opponent, turning in an instant into a pile of pixels on the cold floor.

The crowd erupts.

The programs around me howl and squeal and clap and stomp and trade items they have been betting on. Beside me, a large male scowls as he hands over what is clearly a new baton to a smug, satisfied, and minuscule female beside him.

This really is a game to them.

Nothing more.

Two programs are dead, and they couldn't care any less. All they see is vengeance, and entertainment, and it has to stop. It has to stop _now._

If that means revealing myself and everything I have done to the world, so be it. I refuse to watch this go on any longer.

Besides, what is the worse that they could do to me, put me in the games?

_. . . Wait._

I can't keep a hollow sort of smile from moving across my face.

I've just given myself an idea.

* * *

Yori

* * *

"What do you _mean _you know how to do it? Do what?"

Tron came out of the crowd again so suddenly I hardly had time to blink before he grabbed my hand and pulled me away. Now we're outside, and he's babbling far too excitedly about "how he'll show them," and I have no idea who he's talking about, let alone what he thinks he's going to do. Either I've grown less perceptive in my old age, or Tron isn't making _any sense._

He whirls around, turning on his heel, and grabs me gently, his big hands closing around my forearms. The next logical thing to do would be to look me in the eye with that stern Tron look he has and explain everything, or at least offer some cryptic response to tied me over till we get home, but instead he sort of smiles at me and, practically lifting me off the ground to do it, kisses me as if he's just seeing me for the first time. I am almost too bewildered to kiss him back… but I manage. His eyes are bright when he sets me down again.

"Tron," I say, trying to keep my voice steady but suddenly on the verge of laughter from the strangeness of it all, "what has gotten into you?

"I'm done hiding," he replies.

I'm sure he sees me blanch when he says that, because he rubs his thumbs across the circuits on my arms and grips me a little more tightly before he continues.

"Yori," he says, his voice low and rough, just how it always is when he's being very serious about something, "it's time. This is the perfect opportunity to put a stop to all of this before it gets any worse."

"Put a stop to what, Tron? The games? The chaos?"

"All of it."

"All of it. And how exactly do you think you're going to do that? We have to be practical about this-"

"I've _been_ practical," he grunts, looking at me with a flat expression and burning eyes, "and now it's time someone stood up for some kind of law and order in this system. They may be sacrificing Clu's old minions today, but what happens when they run out of sentries and harmless gatekeepers? They won't stop, Yori. Not unless someone makes them."

His tone darkens exponentially as he says the last phrase.

"You're going to _make _them?" I wonder if he can hear the alarm in my voice at this choice of words. Forcing programs into things is a Rinzler trait, not a Tron trait, and paired with his tone of voice, the effect is jarring. Judging by the way he winces, however, he seems realizes what he's said,and his voice is gentler when he speaks next.

"That's not what I meant."

"So what did you mean?"

I try to be gentler this time, too, and I reach up to touch his face as I speak.

"I can try to persuade them," he replies, "they looked up to me, once. Maybe they'd be willing to try that again."

I hesitate. It sounds too good to be true. I can't quite make myself believe it could ever be that easy. A lot has changed since then.

"Tron… There's no guarantee they'd listen to you, they're not listening to anyone anymore…"

He lifts my chin and makes me look into his face.

"They listened to you," he says gruffly, his eyes full of emotions I can't read. He's referring, of course, to the day we were reunited, when I had a bar full of programs listening as I told my story.

"That was different."

He looks at me, nonplussed, and says nothing.

"And even if they do listen," I continue, the words a jumble in my mouth, "what will happen when they find out where you've been all this time? They're going to ask, you know."

His expression hardens, but his eyes are scorching.

"I'll just tell them everything at once and get it out of the way," he says flatly.

I must look more confused than ever when he says this, because he shakes his head and finally begins to explain his plan more completely. I listen carefully, nodding when I should and wincing through most of it, but in the end it's fairly simple, and I have to admit, it could work. It's a gamble, but it's one that someone needs to take, because he's right: The system does need someone to stand for law and order, and there are few –if any- programs better equipped to do that than Tron. And showing them, instead of telling them, like he's planning? If nothing else, it's sure to make an impression. It'll do that without a doubt.

Besides, he's set on it now, and once Tron has a mission in his head, a grid bug gone viral wouldn't be enough to deter him. This plan of his is happening, whether I like it or not.

* * *

_Author's note: _My thanks to my good friend Rachel for beta-ing this chapter for me. One more to go, everybody! Thanks for sticking around, and here's hoping you're enjoying what you're reading.

-End of line


	5. In White

Yori

* * *

I try to take my seat, but I can hardly stand still, let alone sit. Around me, bitterly happy, excited programs are filing in from all sides, chattering to each other about the competitors for today's games. It's going to be disc wars again. They seem to be waiting until they can capture a few large teams of conscripts before trying anyone on the lightcycle grid, which is the only other game popular enough for them to bother with. Logistically, these events aren't easy to organize, so it's no surprise that they've started on such a small scale.

Beside me, two male programs are gesturing excitedly at a view screen to our right, where the name beside the "combatant two" label has just disappeared, and is slowly being replaced by something else. Only, there is no name. Instead there is a single word, which has the crowd in an uproar in an instant. I have to turn down the power to my audio filters to handle the noise which is coming from their combined reactions. The screen now reads, "Combatant Two: Volunteer."

It looks like Tron has arrived.

* * *

Tron

* * *

The blue-circuited sentry outside of the arena's rear entrance doesn't know how to respond to me. He's an amateur, definitely programmed for something other than what he's doing. He's holding his staff all wrong, and the visor over his eyes is just upgraded eye protection that he's tinted to make himself look intimidating. He tries to deter me, at first, and I can understand why. I don't look trustworthy in this suit.

Yori is the fashionable one, not me. I have four different appearance files I can alternate between, total, and Yori's fondness for personal upgrades is the only reason I have more than one in the first place. Generally I stick with one or the other, and this one is an exception to even that rule. I last time I wore it was in the early days of Clu's regime, just before he found me and . . . repurposed me. The circuitry is so absolutely minimal that there might as well be no circuits at all. It's a good suit for someone who doesn't want to be recognized by their usual circuits, and close enough to how Rinzler looked to turn a few heads. Yori hates it.

The would-be sentry in front of me doesn't like it much either.

"This area is off-limits. What do you want?" He sounds braver than he looks.

"To volunteer."

His jaw drops open. I can almost see him processing, just like I am. Lines of code, analyses of the arena's structure, a list of alternate methods of getting in if this doesn't work, and tactical scans are all running at once at the far edges of my vision.

The sentry moves his mouth, but only ends up with it hanging open again, without saying anything. Then, finally, he chokes out a few words.

"You… want to volunteer for the games? They're to the death you know."

"Are you going to let me in or not?"

He just stares at me, and nods. Shaking his head, he turns and opens the door.

"Straight through and on your left, then follow the ramp to t—"

"I know where I'm going."

I don't wait for him to ask any questions, but push past him into the dim hallway beyond. I know the underbelly of this building like my own circuits. My visual processors could fail entirely and I'd still be able to find the door I need. Even before Rinzler, I knew this place. I used to love the games.

_You still do._

I wince under the helmet, but it's true. I can't remember the last time I was this excited; my circuits are twice as hot as they should be and the rate of my cycling has gone up exponentially. I feel like shouting or laughing or... or _something. _Now that I'm here, I can hardly stand the wait. I keep my mouth shut and my head down, and the second sentry I pass, the one who is in the middle of interrogating the terrified ex-soldier who I'll be replacing, doesn't seem to realizing how badly I want this.

How badly I've _been_ wanting this.

'Halt, program!" This sentry, who has white circuits and a full face visor, is obviously better equipped than the first for his job. "Identify yourself."

I stop, and turn to face him. He's not very tall, and I have to look down my nose just to see him straight.

"I'm a volunteer."

The quivering conscript beside him whirls around and stares at me, his expression clearly betraying the fact that he's experiencing some kind of overload. Between the disbelief in what he's heard and the hope that it has inspired, he doesn't seem to know what to do. I glance at him, and then at the sentry.

"Let him go."

"Why?"

I step towards him, and he grips his staff defensively. I reach out and knock it from his hands. Seeing an opportunity, the conscript makes his escape, picking it up and bolting. The sentry turns to go after him, but I grab him by his arm.

"Leave him."

He seems surprised by how easily I can hold him back, and after a micro he stops straining and looks at me.

"Who are you?" he asks. His voice is unfiltered and unaltered, a far cry from Clu's mechanical-sounding guardsmen. He's playing the role of a soldier, and he's doing a convincing job, but underneath the visor he's still just a program. A scared, angry program looking for some order in the chaos.

"Like I said, I'm just a volunteer," I reply, releasing his arm. He doesn't stop me from going. As I walk away he turns and punches in a new label for "combatant two" on the control panel on the wall behind him. I can't see the name of the other player from this angle.

Ahead of me the dark hallway slopes upward, ending in a bright light that obscures any view of the world beyond. At the top of the ramp there is a lift, and I step in. I know this routine. As soon as I'm inside, it begins to rise.

o0o0o0o0o

Alerts and i/o feed cloud my vision for a moment as the lift levels with the disc wars platform. I'm too eager to hold them at bay. My disc is suddenly itchy against my back, and my cycling is a roar in my ears. Something tastes like raw energy, though there's nothing in my mouth, and I can feel an excess of power pulsing through my circuits in waves. The crowd roars and howls uncontrollably beneath me, hungry for the games. Almost as hungry as I am.

The lift opens in front of me, and I step out. Whoever designed the layout for the platform this time has a knack for it. Looking around, I find that I am inside of a multi-layer, highly texturized, hexagonal structure the likes of which I've never seen in the games.

I like it.

I like it more than I should.

Some ugly, carnal part of my programming is stirring, the part of me that loves combat… that lives for a challenge. I don't trust it, and I don't want to appreciate it, but I can't help but enjoy what it does to me. It's like raw energy in my systems, radiating heat and electricity through every pixel of my body. If the round doesn't start soon, I think I might short circuit. I _can't wait. _I want this. I want this so badly that it hurts.

I've missed this place . . .

I am shocked out of my reverie by the realization of what I am doing physically. I'm pitched forward on bent knees, arms out beside me with a little bit of a bend, ready to grab my disc at a moment's notice, ready to spring on anything that moves like some kind of mindless predator.

_Get it together, Tron. Focus._

Across the platform from me, a blond program in pale orange is stepping out of another lift. He looks bewildered by the new design, too, and stumbles backwards in surprise when he sees me. There is a large hole in the center of the space, and he is on the other side of it, but we're still close enough together for me to hear him whisper. The announcer is talking over us now, some grand speech about one of Clu's murderers and a mysterious volunteer, but the only thing that really registers is the name my opponent says.

"Rinzler?"

A shudder runs through my circuits, and a feeling of cold stabs through my chest. It's not just the suit that has given him that impression, and judging by the absolute bombardment of noise coming at us from the crowd below, he's not the only one I've fooled.

Yori must be distraught. She's probably hiding it, and will never mention it for my sake, but she must be horrified.

I hate doing that to her.

This will be the last time it happens if I have to shut myself down to ensure that. But for now, the one I have to convince isn't her, but the conscript across from me. He needs to see the truth.

"No," I reply. This in and of itself should be a confirmation since Rinzler didn't speak, but he is wearing a clear visor, and I can see absolute disbelief in his brown eyes. He's far from convinced… which is exactly what I need. He's brave, though, and regardless of who he thinks I am he draws his disc, and his mouth hardens into a firm line as it rezzes to life.

A wave of delight and eagerness and trepidation washes over me, and a yellow warning icon flashes for a moment in my head.

_No turning back now._

I draw my disc.

* * *

Yori

* * *

When Tron walks out, the crowd goes absolutely wild. He looks like Rinzler in that stealth suit of his, and they are beside themselves with joy over the prospect of their favorite slaughterer's return. The conscript he's being pitted against takes a step back when he sees Tron across from him, ready to lunge, but recovers well. If he's afraid, he doesn't show it, and this drives the crowd to a more insane level of noise than ever before. The chant of "Disc wars, disc wars, derezz, derezz!" is taken up almost before the announcer has finished talking.

Combatant one, who the screens overhead name "Orex," draws his disc. Tron follows suite. Unlike Orex, however, he doesn't pause before he makes a move with it. He turns and runs up the side of the structure (I honestly don't even know what to call it, platform is not the right word for this weird new construction that they're fighting in,) and then catapults himself off of it, clearing the gap in the middle of the floor easily and landing just out of reach of the other player. Orex, of course, has no idea that Tron has no intention of killing anyone and panics, hurtling his disc with all of his strength at Tron's chest from barely more than an arm's length away. It's a forceful throw, but poorly aimed, and Tron doesn't have to do more but take a step to his left to avoid it. That's exactly how he likes to fight, up close and personal. The aerodynamics and acrobatics that Rinzler favored so heavily have never held much appeal for him unless absolutely necessary, despite the fact that Tron as capable as Rinzler ever was of executing them.

He lets his opponent's disc circle back to him, ducking reflexively to avoid it before launching a melee attack on the orange-clad program. The poor conscript defends himself relatively well at first, but then he trips while backing away from Tron, who almost stumbles over his fallen form. He jumps up and summersaults in the air to avoid him, landing neatly just past where Orex is scrambling to get up. The crowd replies with a chorus of howling and cheers, stomping their feet on the stands.

Tron turns and brings his disc down over the program's head. My cycling freezes for a nano, my voice catching in my throat. He looks like he might actually derezz him, and for a instant I'm terrified that I've lost him, that he's reverted into the being that the crowd thinks he is, but then he hesitates. It's not something everyone else sees –they're too busy trying to get a chant of "Rinz-ler, de-rezz!" to catch on—but I know what he's done. I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief as Orex blocks the blow. His next action, however, is to reach up from his place on the ground and grab Tron around the back of his knee, knocking him down flat. It's a dirty move that will undoubtedly irritate Tron. . . if he gets back up before his opponent does.

They both manage to leap to their feet, however, (Tron more gracefully than Orex), and their discs clash in midair. Tron then ducks and spins once off of his hand, inverting himself before spiraling away, to avoid several successive jabs from his opponent. It's the sort of move Rinzler always used and Tron has always resented for being unnecessarily flashy, but the crowd begins anew with their shouting because of it, a couple thousand voices all blurring together into one incompressible roar.

But he's not done with them. There's a reason he's not guarding himself against similarities the and Rinzler share, as he usually does. He's letting that part of him –that tortured, vicious, dogged little part of him that Clu exploited to make Rinzler in the first place— show on purpose. It's what has always made him such a good competitor, what has allowed him to survive situations which would have utterly overwhelmed other programs, and now he's letting it loose. It's the same part of him that entices him into a little flare and drama on rare occasion, and whatever Clu may have twisted it into, there's a certain appeal to the way he moves when he lets it take over. He becomes so fluid, so unlike anything else on the grid. Every step seems to glide, and he doesn't need any flips or bounds to be the most impressive mover that most of the programs around me have ever seen, or will ever see. He has everyone's attention, now, and that's exactly how he wants it. The next stage is essential.

As Orex draws his disc back over his shoulder to throw it, Tron brings his in front of him, taking it in both hands. When he parts them again, both of his discs are visible.

The crowd goes wild.

* * *

Tron

* * *

My combatant (whose name _I _still don't know due to the crowd shouting over everything the announcer says,) falters.

"You liar," he says, staring at my discs. He's referring to my earlier denial of identity. After all, everyone knows that Rinzler was the only program in the system to actively use two discs.

"Not exactly," I reply, but the crowd has reached a deafening pitch below us and I'm not sure how much he hears. He hurtles his disc at me, aiming low as if to remove me feet from under me, but it's easily avoided. I throw one hand down and deflect his disc with my own, sending it spinning over the edge of the void in the platform's center. It drops, and bursts into a shower of pixels two levels below. I'll owe him a new one for that…

His eyes widen as his disc shatters below him, then glances at me, and bolts. He seems to want to put as much distance between us as physically possible, though he must know it won't do him any good.

_Give up, program._

I let him get all the way around the platform, circling the gap until he is opposite me, before coming after him. No one in their right programming would try to jump it, and in theory he could keep space between us for some time if I don't simply start aiming discs at him, which I could. If I did throw, he'd be dead in an instant, though, and that's not my goal.

Besides, I have never claimed to be in my right programming. I give myself three running strides, and leap.

For a moment it feels as if I am hanging in the air, suspended and ready to drop, but then my feet the floor again on the other side. I come down practically on top of my opponent, and knock him flat on his back, one disc drawn back over my shoulder, the other pointed at his neck. His circuits pale.

The crowd screams.

For a moment I can imagine what it would be like to finish the game, how easy it would be to bring my hand down and cut him into nothing… but that isn't who I am.

Not anymore.

Instead, I let my discs go dark in my hands, and I press them back together without a word. The crowds howls of joy turn to angry booing, but I ignore them. The program lying beneath me looks confused. Hopelessly confused.

"Aren't you going to derezz me?" His voice is steady, but weak.

"No."

He sags with relief when I answer. His eyes say he doesn't trust me, but he wants to believe it badly enough that he's able to let that go.

"What's your name, program?" I ask. The crowd and the announcer are both shouting now, but these aren't Clu's games. They don't have an enforcer strong enough to make us kill each other if we don't want to.

"Orex."

I nod once before speaking.

"Orex, do you want to live?"

He falters, and doesn't seem to be able to speak right away.

"Yes," he answers after a moment, "Please, yes. I'm not a soldier anymore."

I offer him my hand.

"Then live."

He takes my hand, and I pull him to his feet. Sighing in stunned relief, he retracts his visor, and looks to me to address the crowd. I hold up a hand, and although I have to stand there for quite a while before they finally concede and quiet down, eventually the onslaught of voices becomes only a low, irritated hum. Irritated, and wondrous. None of them understands what's happening before them, and as angry as they are that none of Clu's old forces will be derezzed in front of them, they're curious, too. There is a sort of resounding click which reveals that the audio amplifiers have been turned on Orex and I, and I step forward to address the circle of programs below.

I was in no way programmed for large public addresses, but the words come to me more easily than I would have expected. I'm surprised at the volume, and the authority, in my own voice.

"Programs!"

There is a hum of barely vocalized response.

"Is this the system you wanted?"

A chorus of angry sounds is the reply now. Whether directed at me, at Clu, or the users who destroyed him doesn't matter. I have their attention.

"We have seen enough deresolutions, and we can do better," I shout, "These games end now. Anyone who chooses to fight to the death will answer to me from now on."

There is a roar, at once angry and bewildered, that is so overwhelming that the announcer can't seem to make her voice heard. They drown her out, shouting things I can almost make out. What they must be saying is obvious, though. They want to know who I am.

It's time to tell them.

* * *

Yori

* * *

Programs around me are shouting things like "Oh yeah, and who are you?" and "who are you really?" as loudly as they can. Not a moment before they were shouting Rinzler's name, certain beyond a doubt that that's who they were watching, but now they're confused. Rinzler never, ever turned down the opportunity to brutally derezz an opponent and certainly never made speeches, and although Tron's two discs were confirmation enough to make even the most skeptical in the audience recognize the Clu's fallen enforcer, they're perplexed by his behavior now. They're ready to believe anything to make this makes sense. Ours is a system that is tired of empty promises and insinuations. They want to see the truth, the whole truth, right before their eyes, and that is exactly what Tron gives them.

Taking his disc in both hands, he stands a little taller above the crowd. Slowly, white begins to seep into the black of his suit, the beginnings of the most iconic garb showing through. Programs in the audience around me begin looking at each other in confusion, and a few faces have morphed into masks of wide eyed disbelief. A women a row in front of me keeps repeating "it can't be, it can't be," over and over as if she's glitching, while then men to my right are shouting and mumbling incoherently. Still another couple behind me are looking to each other for answers, and finding none.

Gradually, however, a name is starting to echo through the crowd. Rinzler's name is being traded back and forth with Tron's as understanding –or at least suspicion—dawns on the programs around me. Above us, a now brilliantly white-clad Tron is looking down on us, the insignia on his chest visible even from here. This time when he speaks, everyone quiets to hear him.

"As I said," he states flatly, "the deresolutions end _now."_

This time, no one argues. There is a low, rumbling hum coming from the crowd, a muttering that swells, becomes a shout, and then a cheer. There are plenty of angry programs, people who want to know where he's been and others who are just beginning to understand, some who hate him for the dual identity he's just made clear, some who haven't put it together yet, and still more who are stricken by what appears to be a miracle before them; but the end result is all the same. This is the change they have been longing for, a new factor, a prayer for leadership answered. The voices of the audience blur together to form one resounding cacophony of approval . . . and hope.

In reply, Tron says nothing. But all at once, he throws his disc triumphantly up over his head, holding it directly above him with both hands, his head thrown back. When he lowers it again, his helmet is gone at last, and for the first time in more than a thousand cycles, the citizens of Tron's system can see their hero's face.

_-End of Line.-_

* * *

Author's note: Thank you Rachel for editing this, and thank all of you so much for reading!

Also, if you liked this story (or Through Broken Eyes or Survivor's Tale, for that matter,) you may be interested in my newest project, which is another full-length Tron fic. It features a very full cast including: Yori, Tron AND Rinzler (you'll see what I mean when it's posted), Paige, Alan, Lora, Sam, Quorra, and some ISOs!

The fic is called **Tron: Regenesis**, and the first chapters will be going up in the next few days, so be on the lookout. OR, if you're interested but don't want to sign up for author alerts/waste time just checking into my profile, you can always send me a PM about it and I will personally notify you once it's been posted.

Thanks again for reading!

-Ridyr


End file.
